


Earthquake in Suspension (or, A Love Story in Three Acts)

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (probably), Alternate Universe- Javert Lives, Asexual Character, Asexual Javert, BAMF Javert, Blackmail, Cosette Ships It, Demiromantic Javert, Fight Scene, Fluff, Geology Wasn't Even A Thing Until 1820 And Even Then It Was Just England For A Good Bit, I am stressing minimal sads here I tried my best, Internalized Homophobia, Javert Is Very Oblivious To His Own Feelings, Javert Lives, M/M, Minimal sads, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sex-Repulsed Javert, Slow Burn, The OC Ships It, The OC is a Plot Device, Touch-Starved Javert, Unnecessary Geology Metaphors, brief appearance by Montparnasse, canon attempted suicide, like the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-21 07:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12452511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: Prompt: Valjean And Javert Realize They're Ace And/Or Aro, And Everyone Is Accepting, And They Are Happy.On a cool June night on one of the many bridges in Paris, Valjean fractures something in Javert with a simple touch and a soft plea that sends a tremor through his soul. Valjean stubbornly teaches him mercy, kindness, and the language of touch, and Javert is metamorphosed.





	1. Act 1: Rupture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erinaconyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinaconyx/gifts).



> Sorry this is late- it's 15 times the minimum wordcount, so I hope that's chill? :P Took me, uh, 6k to get to the prompt so jump to chapter 2 if you're super impatient I guess?? This OC that shows up is my actual child now, by the way, dear god I love him so much.
> 
> Jules, it was exceedingly hard to not put sads in this. You don't know the pain I went through to avoid sads. Some were unavoidable, please understand, like have you seen these two idiots it's literally a part of their personality, but it's still like 90% fluff and 9% plot. I do this for you because we are friends and I love you. I hope you enjoy!  
> PS: you still owe me hols fic :P
> 
> Sewerchat, I adore all of you, and in a way this is for you guys too! Thank you so much for joining my Discord server I made on impulse while severely sleep deprived and keeping it fun and never needing me to do any actual moderation. <3 Here's to another sewer-y year! 
> 
> ("Sewerchat?" you may ask. "A really chill Les Mis Discord chat with awesome people that's active?"  
> "Hell yeah," I say. "The link to the fun is in this fine [tumblr post](http://kaleran.tumblr.com/post/165633568408/valvert-and-general-les-mis-fan-group-chat)! Come hang out!")

The first time Valjean lays a hand on him in kindness, Javert trembles.

“You will fall,” Valjean says, as if unaware of Javert’s intentions even though they could not be made clearer. “Step down. Please.” 

Valjean is strong but his hand is gentle. Javert’s balance wavers and his fingernails bite sharp grooves into his palms. Perhaps kindness is a weapon; why else would he tremble so under Valjean’s touch? The night Seine air is not so cold as to make him shiver. He would rather be damned in hell than be subject to kindness, but he is helpless to anything but obey.

He steps down.

-

The second time Valjean presses his arm in a motion of friendliness, Javert is collected enough to jerk away from it.

“Do not—” Javert starts. He does not know what to name Valjean’s insistent forgiveness and motions of kindness nor why he refuses to leave Javert alone. “Do not touch me.”

“Why not?” Valjean asks, hand still and unmoving in the space Javert’s arm previously occupied.

“I dislike it,” Javert growls. It feels like a lie and he cannot meet Valjean’s eyes. His arm tingles uncomfortably with an unfamiliar sensation somehow left behind by Valjean's hand.

Valjean looks at him for long moments, expression closed and unreadable, then lowers his hand at last.

-

Valjean’s daughter is just as annoyingly tactile as her father when Javert finally meets her. Valjean introduces him as a friend and ignores how both look at him in disbelief. Cosette has light hands that skim the edges of Javert’s coat and he startles at each of them, subtlety stepping out of reach and ideally staying half a room away from her when possible. He restrains himself from demanding she cease her actions with Valjean so obviously fond of her. Such sharp words would not leave a favorable impression and if Javert is truly stuck with Valjean’s stubborn friendship then it would not make do to make an enemy of his daughter.

There is no reason for Valjean to befriend him- Javert already promised him he would cease further attempts at ending his own life- yet Valjean persists. It baffles Javert why anyone, never mind Valjean, would wish to endure his presence any more then they needed too. He thinks Valjean is mocking him several weeks after the bridge before submitting himself to Valjean’s company, although he still analysis their interactions with a suspicious eye. Valjean seems unbothered by all of this, never demanding more than the single-word answers Javert is willing to bite out.

“What are you after?” Javert snaps a few weeks after Valjean found him on the bridge. “I have been changed and humiliated, I have made a fool of myself already to my superiors, and have vowed to keep you free. What more do you ask of me? What more can I possibly give you?”

“Your company,” Valjean answers simply, valiantly ignoring his own flinch at Javert’s sharp tone. “Your friendship.”

Javert laughs at that, harsh and unnatural. “I have never been a friend. You are asking the impossible.”

“It is always possible.” Valjean is not loud nor particularly charismatic, but even Javert finds it difficult to ignore the easy conviction in that statement. It is spoken with such straightforwardness it may as well be fact.

“Very well.” The words are out of Javert’s mouth before he realizes it, as if drawn to Valjean’s own like magnets, and he crosses his arms with a frown a moment later. It is not the last time he experiences this brand of Valjean’s stubbornness.

-

Valjean is not only stubborn in his friendship but in all other things as well. He is admirable in many ways, yet he aggravates Javert to the point where he can no longer be silent about Valjean’s secrets in front of Cosette any longer. Over the months he has come to know Valjean Javert has learned he is self-denying to the point of destruction. There is not justice in letting Cosette see the worst of him, and Javert is not so changed as to no longer carry out justice.

He spills Valjean’s secrets with a bluntness that startles Cosette and has Valjean protesting weakly at his side and Javert finds himself snapping out answers in irritation when Cosette interrupts him and ignoring Valjean altogether until he is finished. After he is done with his summary of what he knows of Valjean’s history, he excuses himself without another word and does not expect for Valjean to contact him again.

But Valjean always does the opposite of what Javert expects him to. Soon after that, after Valjean and Cosette have had words with each other outside of Javert’s presence, Valjean arrives at his door and takes Javert’s arm in what is practically an embrace, likely forgetting Javert’s demands to not touch him. Javert jerks away instinctively but Valjean’s grip holds fast. He is too preoccupied thanking Javert for actions that do not deserve thanks to notice the struggle. The alien feeling that always accompanied such a touch start to shift the longer Valjean holds his arm and by the time Valjean releases him Javert almost wishes he had held on a few moments longer. He holds himself still with an effort when Valjean lets go, stilling the tremor in his bones.

In Javert’s life, touches of kindness were few and far between. More often, the touch of another was a form of discipline; a blow rather than a caress. Touches of comradely were known to him as things that others gave to each other but never to him. It had never bothered him and he had never once felt envy upon observing them.

Now, after that one lingering touch that nearly sent him trembling once more, he becomes curious. He starts observing Valjean and Cosette together, how he easily he takes her dainty hand in his large calloused one, how effortlessly she slips her arm into the loop of her father’s elbow, and Javert finds himself strangely envious. Valjean has extended friendship, but he has only twice extended a friendly touch after the night on the bridge. Perhaps there is a reason Valjean so easily accepted Javert’s refusal of touch; perhaps he disliked touching Javert as well. Javert’s mind on the matter has shifted, but he cannot go back and change his words or their shared past.

So Javert watches the pair of them, standing to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, and the longer he watches the more envious he becomes. Soon it is not only the kind hands on Cosette’s shoulders that he is envious of. Cosette brings small smiles and a softness to Valjean’s eye that Javert can never compete with. Valjean may chuckle at his dry humor on occasion, but his smiles are few and do not linger.

-

“Do you disapprove of Cosette?” Valjean asks once, weeks after Javert had forced Valjean’s secrets to light. A worried crease forms between his eyebrows.

“Why would you think that?” Javert responds in surprise. “She is clever and has your kindness. You clearly care for each other, so what does my opinion matter?”

“Of course it matters. We are friends.” Valjean’s lips pull upward in a slight smile, but just as soon as it appears it is gone again. “I have noticed you watching us.”

Javert can only look away in guilt. “I never loved my mother,” he says after a moment. “You remember I was born in prison. It was not a kind upbringing. I find myself intrigued by your interactions with her.”

It is a good a reason as any. His fingers tighten on his crossed arms painfully.

Valjean hums, a look of sympathy on his face that is different from the pity Javert expected from him. “Is that why you asked me not to touch you?”

“I was not avoiding you specifically,” Javert corrects. “I suppose that is part of the reason I disliked it. You of all people know how much kindness exists inside a prison.”

Valjean’s expression tightens and he gives a small nod of agreement. His hands are clasped together in front of him and presumably hold more interest than Javert’s form. Javert looks away from him. He should not have mentioned his prison upbringing. Of course Valjean would still have painful memories of Tuloun.

He is silent for so long that Javert believes the conversation to be over, then suddenly says, “You speak of your dislike of contact as if it is in the past.”

Javert tenses. He had not realized he had let himself slip.

Valjean presses on. “You say you have not known much kindness.”

“Valjean,” Javert starts, stepping away and tightening his crossed arms like a shield over his chest.

“Will you allow me?” Valjean continues anyway, extending a hand with his palm upward.

Javert cannot think of a way to deny him. He gives a slight nod.

The third time Valjean touches him in kindness, it is with a steady hand to Javert’s shoulder. Javert forces himself to endure it and tries to not pull away too quickly as to make Valjean think he is disgusted by him. It is still uncomfortable and unfamiliar, but as the moment extends he encounters the same alien prickling feeling turning to one of welcome. Another beat passes- it has been too long with Valjean touching him, Javert is certain of it- and the sensation grows further. It expands and seems to touch his very soul, as if Valjean’s simple kindness is giving life to the dead stump of a heart in his chest, causing it to spasm and crack and—

Javert removes himself with as much grace as he can muster with his hands trembling on his arms and his breath carefully controlled.

“Javert?” Valjean questions, concerned he pushed too far no doubt, letting his hand drop back to his side.

He should tell Valjean to stop, to never do that again no matter how longingly Javert looks on, to keep his kindness to himself for surely it is wasted on someone like Javert. He should remove himself from Valjean’s presence at once and pretend as if nothing ever happened. There are many things Javert should have said, yet he voices none of them.

“It was not entirely unpleasant,” he finds himself saying instead. It does not feel like he is forming the words himself, as if he is a passenger in his own body. “Forgive me. I am unused to such contact.”

“What is the sort of contact you are used to?” Valjean asks. He is always too kind, always too empathetic and ready to take other’s burdens upon himself. It is a trait that does more harm than good to Valjean’s own wellbeing and it is the one Javert both hates and admires the most.

“Brawls. Arrests.” Javert waves a hand dismissively. It does not shake, and he has never been more proud of his own control. “You know I am of the police. Contact is necessary.”

“Ah,” is all Valjean says.

Javert scowls, recrossing his arms. “You are thinking me pitiful.”

“I am not thinking that,” Valjean hurries to correct. “I am wondering if you would permit me to touch you more often?”

It begins as a statement and ends as an uncertain question. Javert clenches his jaw briefly. Perhaps Valjean fears him still, despite their apparent friendship and the insurmountable debt Javert owns him.

“Do as you wish,” Javert says, attempting disinterest. His eyes catch on Valjean’s hands and linger there in contrast to his words.

Valjean’s lips bend upwards just the barest amount. The expression does not fade and Javert tells himself it is enough.

-

The next day, when Valjean touches his arm in greeting, Javert fails to keep himself from startling and pulls away at once out of habit.

“The fault is mine,” Javert apologizes quickly, failing to keep a slight flush of embarrassment from his face.

“You are not at fault, my friend,” Valjean says, touching a few fingers against Javert’s arm briefly in a much slower motion such that Javert is able to prepare himself. It is over in a moment, leaving his skin tingling as if imprinted. “We cannot blame ourselves for reactions out of our control.”

He smiles in what Javert presumes is reassurance but appears more like a grimace. Javert looks away from him, guilt festering in his chest, bringing to mind the number of times he has seen Valjean flinch away from a sharp word or a raised hand even all these years later.

-

Valjean continues to touch him on occasion, usually in greeting or to draw his attention instead of saying his name. He is patient with Javert even if Javert is impatient with himself. There is no reason he should be jumping at every brief touch to his arm or the back of his hand, no reason for his instincts to tell him to draw away at the first contact, no reason to tremble under his hand. It is absurd. He is better than this. He trusts Valjean more than he trusts himself most days! Valjean would never harm him purposefully nor without cause; so why is training himself to be still so difficult?

“You must not blame yourself,” Valjean tells him when Javert expresses his frustrations. “It will take time.”

Javert gives a wordless growl and folds his arms over his chest, two fingers tapping restlessly against his coat. “Why are you so patient? Why do you insist on doing this?”

“Because I want to,” Valjean answers simply. “I believe touch to be the greatest form of communication. Why else would lovers kiss or friends embrace?”

“Words work perfectly well,” Javert says.

“You may be correct, but I have found that touch can bring far better comfort and can even heal that which I was certain was damaged forever.” Valjean looks away, hands fiddling absently with the worn hem of his yellow coat. “You spoke of the absence of a kind hand in prisons. I had thought, after that, I would never again be comfortable with people touching me familiarly. Cosette was also wary of another’s hands when we first met, but we have taught each other not to be afraid. It can be learned.”

Javert snorts, not entirely convinced of Valjean’s reasoning.

“You will see,” Valjean says confidently.

Javert wishes he were not so optimistic.

-

He does not visit Valjean for several days as a case suddenly requires his undivided attention. It is nothing he has not dealt with before; a collection of thieves breaking and entering homes in one of the richer areas of Paris, but it is his new and changed sense of justice that has him fumbling. Valjean has attempted to teach him mercy and it appears that some of it has finally stuck with him.

It is a moment’s hesitation. A young boy, a gamin no older than eight or nine years of age, catches his attention. He has obviously been helping the thieves, but Javert see his hollow cheeks and thin fingers and the way he flinches from Javert’s authoritative words. In that moment, Javert sees an innocent, and in that moment one of the thieves strikes.

He leaves the scene having arrested the thieves but paid for it with a broken nose and a split lip. Before, he would not have hesitated and surely would have avoided the man’s fists altogether. However, he would have also arrested the boy who is only trying to live. Javert gives him the name of the church Valjean brings bread to and lets him go free with a gruff warning to the stark surprise of his fellow officers.

Valjean has fractured him, changed him for the better, but even Javert does not quite know what to do with his new self.

-

“Oh, Javert!” Valjean exclaims the next day, immune to Javert’s irritable mood. “Are you alright? Has a doctor seen to you? Is your case over?”

“I am fine; it is nothing I have not endured before,” Javert assures him with a growl. The telling circles of sleepless nights under his eyes are disguised by discolored bruised skin, which makes him even fiercer and uglier than usual. “There is now only the task of returning the recovered objects and I am relieved to inform you that I have not been ordered to track down the true owners.”

“But are you well?”

“I am always well. I do not need a doctor.”

“Allow me,” Valjean asks, and that is all the warning Javert receives before Valjean rests his hands upon his face.

Valjean’s hands are warm, but not overly so. He places one hand on Javert’s jaw lightly to keep him in place while the other hovers around the discolored skin of his broken nose like a particularly fixated moth. There is really no need to steady him as Javert is frozen in place by Valjean’s touch on his cheek and his worried eyes concentrated on his wounds.

All irritation fades away like blown smoke and Javert is left powerless. A finger passes lightly over his cut lip before drawing away just as fast, returning to lightly trace the bridge of Javert’s nose that the doctor could not quite return to straightness. Javert flinches away when he presses hard enough to hurt, which is hardly anything considering the state it is in, but Valjean only catches his face once more with even lighter fingers and soft apologies. They trace his cheekbones where more bruises lay in ugly purples and greens, then, strangely, seem to examine the crow’s feet at his eyes and the harsh lines etched around his mouth. Finally, he tucks a stray strand of dark hair delicately behind Javert’s ear and steps away.

He had not spoken once save for a few soothing words of nonsense when he had caused Javert to flinch away. Javert blinks at him, having no earthly idea why Valjean would spend so much time simply examining his face. It leaves an unfamiliar feeling in his chest like his very soul has quaked with some nameless emotion, leaving things unsettled and out of place. Half-formed questions whirl through his mind, but he has enough sense to hide such turbulent emotions from Valjean.

“You should take better care of yourself,” Valjean says with a worried frown.

“I might have arrested the thieves without incident had I not noticed the boy,” Javert defends, doing his best to leave his questions until Valjean’s actions could be further examined somewhere away from the man himself. His voice threatens to waver and he hates it.

“A child?” Valjean asks, adequately distracted, and soon enough he has sat them both down and is encouraging Javert to retell his story. Javert does not resist, easily reporting to him just as he had to his superiors with efficiency prioritized over any kind of entertainment. Luckily, Valjean does not seem to mind Javert’s dry storytelling.

“I am glad to hear you did not arrest an innocent,” Valjean says after Javert has finished. “However, I would rather not see you injured. I worry for you.”

“He was not entirely innocent,” Javert points out. “I have always taken care of myself, have I not? That will not change now.”

“That does not change the fact that I worry. You are too reckless.” Valjean reaches out to trace the edges of the bruises on Javert’s face carefully, letting his fingertips linger.

Javert hardly dares to breathe and holds himself still as stone. He has never imagined being touched so delicately with such care in his life, never mind twice in one day. This time he cannot stop his eyes from closing or the shudder that runs through his body. It is not revulsion, as he is intimately familiar with that, but something powerful and unfamiliar that overwhelms his tight self-discipline.

“Did I hurt you?” Valjean asks, drawing back at the quiver of Javert’s shoulders.

“No,” Javert answers simply. He does not elaborate, not even when Valjean’s worried eyes hold his in a silent question.

-

That evening finds Javert pacing in his own apartment, hands clutched tightly behind his back and attention turned inward to dissect the events of the afternoon. Why had Valjean touched him like that? What about that touch had caused Javert to fall silent and still and useless under Valjean’s hands? What is it about Valjean’s touch that affects him so?

Javert paces well into the night, often stopping in front of his mirror to attempt to recreate what had occurred by brushing his own fingers against his lips and cheek with as much softness as he can muster. Nothing feels different. He might as well be shaving. There is nothing special about his own face save for its ugliness, only accentuated by the harsh lines carved by time, so what could have possibly caught Valjean’s interest?

His sleep is restless that night and he has no answers in the morning.

-

Valjean smiles at him the first time Javert does not flinch at his touch and the corners of his eyes crinkle in happiness. Javert’s eyes are drawn there immediately and he entertains the idea that Valjean finds his expressions pleasing, as occasionally Valjean will seem to study Javert’s face for long moments, before dismissing the idea moments later. He is not handsome like Valjean’s warm eyes and soft mouth and kind words. There must be some other reason Valjean had lingered that day.

In time, repressing the tremor of strange longing that shakes him whenever Valjean lays a kind hand on him becomes nearly second nature. He hungers for every touch Valjean chooses to bestow on him and does not precisely know why and chooses not to dwell too long on it. He is lucky enough to have them at all.

-

“Go to the wedding.”

“Javert, I cannot! You know I cannot.”

They have been arguing for days. It is pointless, as Javert knows the moment Cosette asks him Valjean will give in immediately.

Javert growls wordlessly in frustration, crossing his arms in a sharp motion that has Valjean repressing a flinch. It is not remarked upon. 

“You will go,” Javert repeats instead.

“As much as I wish it, I cannot! The moment I sign the documents as witness, I sign myself over for arrest.” Valjean pales at the mention of it. “Do you realize what you are asking of me?”

“I am asking for you to be happy!” Javert snaps, hands tightening into fists on the arms of his coat. If he does not do this to restrain himself, he may physically take Valjean by the collar and shake him. “I know you; I know you will be miserable and regret it if you do not attend and I have no wish to see you in such a state when it is easily avoided!”

“I could be recognized--“

“I am still of the police,” Javert interrupts. “My word holds weight. I shall claim you are not Valjean; I shall claim I have killed you myself if I must!” Javert uncrosses his arms to make a sharp motion to punctuate his point. “I will see you happy.”

“At the expense of your own freedom?” Valjean asks, a note of incredulousness in his voice.

“If I must.”

Valjean does not say anything for several moments, his worn hazel eyes staring into Javert’s black ones with a disbelief that Javert has not seen in many months. Javert refuses to back down, gaze unwavering and nostrils flaring in sheer frustration.

“Why?” Valjean asks at last.

“Why?” Javert echoes incredulously. “There are countless reasons why! Because I have not changed myself completely for just any man, because I did not nearly damn myself for you to be unhappy in your freedom, because you are a good man who deserves to see his daughter married.”

He reaches out an arm, uncertain if he is doing this correctly, then takes Valjean’s shoulder in a clumsy grip.

“Because you are my friend,” he adds, his own voice quieter and more solemn because of it.

Valjean starts slightly at his touch, no doubt surprised it as it is the first time Javert has attempted to reciprocate Valjean’s tactile kindness, but remains still. Under Javert’s hand, his shoulder is powerful and solid even at his advanced age. Javert expected nothing less.

Valjean says nothing for another period of silence.

“If I attend,” Valjean says slowly, eyes on the floor, “will you sign the documents in my steed? I dare not risk letting anyone but you know I am in Paris or attach my true name to Cosette.”

Javert realizes he has probably been touching Valjean for longer than acceptable and takes his hand away quickly. It is nearly trembling.

“I will fake an injury to my arm so it does not seem unusual,” Valjean hurries on. “It would not be strange to have a family friend sign witness to Cosette’s marriage.”

The idea has merit and Valjean’s fears are valid. Javert tugs at his whiskers. Would Cosette be comfortable with Javert signing instead of her father? After all, Javert hardly knows the girl. Valjean looks at him with pleading eyes and Javert gives.

“I will do it,” Javert says with an annoyed sigh. “You will see Cosette down the aisle and act in all the ways a father should at a wedding and I will attend and sign the documents.”

“I cannot walk Cosette--“

“You will,” Javert insists. “She adores you. You are the only father she has ever known and this is your duty to her.”

“You are certain?” Valjean asks.

Javert snorts. “I will see to your happiness. You have suffered unjustly; I will see to it that you will not suffer now. Cosette does not deserve to have her wishes denied on her wedding day just because you are being foolish!”

Valjean colors at that.

“You will come to the wedding and I will sign for you,” Javert states again.

“Yes, fine. I yield to you, Inspector,” Valjean says with a flicker of a wry smile. “You realize that, as a family friend who is trusted enough to sign for me, you will need to look the part? Cosette will insist you come to the tailor’s shop with me.”

“Absolutely not. I will rent something suitable.”

“Cosette will find a way to convince you. I will, of course, pay the expense.”

“Valjean, I will not accept your charity and I refuse to go to the tailors!”

-

Cosette is, unfortunately, of the same mind as her father and Javert is all but dragged to the tailors for measurements all paid for by Valjean’s money. He decides there is entirely too much touching involved and by the time the tailor has finished with him he is irritable and has remembered why he took such pains to avoid such things in the past. 

He cannot leave as he must give his opinion on which fabric to use and what he would look suitable in, to which he snaps that he does not care. Cosette jumps in eagerly, holding up this fabric and that to Javert’s face but fortunately not touching him. He has had quite enough of that for one day.

“Are you alright?” Valjean asks him in low tones when Cosette is consulting with the tailor.

“I told you once that I dislike so much touching.” His arms are crossed firmly over his chest and a severe frown adorns his face, ready to growl and snap at any other assistants that attempt to lay a hand or some other strip of fabric on him. It has succeeded in frightening them away and leaving them hesitant to do their duty. They are not like Valjean who is considerate and ever patient. Instead, they set his skin to prickling and each new hand has him tensing. It is very nearly unbearable.

“Ah,” Valjean says, nodding in understanding. “I too am, ah, uncomfortable with so many stranger’s hands. I do not mind the familiar, but there is a point where it becomes too much with strangers. I believe we will be able to step outside soon and leave Cosette to the particulars.”

Javert relaxes by a fraction at that, although he does not know if it is because this torture will be over soon or because Valjean understands him.

Valjean is indeed correct and Cosette is soon deep in conversation with the tailor that Valjean deems her distracted enough that he and Javert can slip outside the store to wait. There are no words spoken between them and they stand in companionable silence, shoulders brushing against each other. Strangely, the familiar contact is soothing rather than irritating and Javert finds himself leaning into Valjean. Valjean presses back, just slightly, but it is enough to convey something Javert is unable to put into words.

-

Valjean is too busy to accompany him for the final fitting and therefor does not see the look on Javert’s face when he nearly fails to recognize himself in the mirror. The vest is a dark grey with some pattern stitched onto it in a lighter shade that he is assured matches Valjean’s and his tailcoat is a lighter shade of blue he had never entertained the thought of wearing before. He blinks at himself stupidly. He had not realized how much his appearance relied on clothing. Gone is the gypsy boy from the gutter who has spat and clawed his way to his position, and in his place appears a man of means and sophistication. It is all very strange. He quickly decides he prefers his own clothes.

He wants to curse Cosette’s name, for surely she is the one who decided upon this ridiculously eye-catching shade, but finds his thoughts distracted by what Valjean will think of it.

-

The wedding is beautiful, if Javert was someone who appreciated something such as aesthetic beauty. As it is, the vast amount of people in attendance annoy him with their chatter and he is constantly sweeping the crowds for signs of illegal or improper behavior out of habit. He doubts if bride or groom know everyone who has been invited. The ways of the upper classes of society have never made much logical sense.

Valjean’s tailored jacket accentuates his broad shoulders and the shade of green, strangely reminiscent of the green summer coat he wore as mayor, brings out the joy in his eyes. Again, it is quite handsome on him if Javert were one to appreciate such things as fashion and color. His eyes linger of Valjean for longer than strictly proper more than once for reasons he does not quite understand, but he tells himself it is because Valjean is happy, smiling whenever he catches sight of Cosette, causing his eyes to lighten and lift some of the lines of worry from his face. He does not miss the few looks Valjean gives him in return and they settle in his breast like contented birds.

Valjean walks Cosette down the aisle, eyes bright and his uninjured right arm in a sling, then takes a seat next to Javert who preemptively holds out a handkerchief for him. The Pontmercy boy, and after knowing Cosette Javert honestly does not know why she is so enamored with him, is also in something handsomely tailored that matches Cosette’s wedding dress only has eyes for his bride-to-be. Valjean sheds silent tears during the ceremony, to which Javert resists rolling his eyes at the sheer sentimentality of the man, and at one-point grasping Javert’s hand tightly, to which Javert jerks in surprise but does not attempt to remove himself until it is time for them to rise. The gloves they both wear cannot disguise the warmth in those hands and Javert nearly allows himself to give into the tremor shaking his bones.

Valjean’s nervousness is contagious and when Javert goes to sign the documents he finds his own hand is shaking slightly. He glares at it and it falls still. No one questions why Javert is signing instead of Valjean and no one jumps up and accuses Valjean of being an ex-convict. Both breathe easier when it is done.

“Do you have a given name?” Valjean asks him once all is said and done and the dancing had begun. “I noticed your signature is only “Javert” and I am simply curious.”

“Javert is my given name. My mother never mentioned a family name and I never knew my father,” Javert answers shortly. “Thus, I am only Javert.”

Valjean nods in acknowledgement, pink tinging his cheeks for unknown reasons. Javert is about to ask, but Cosette appears and drags her father onto the dance floor. Javert is grateful that he was not subject to dance lessons; that torture was reserved for Valjean alone.

Javert waits patiently for the dance to end, watching father and daughter glide around the floor together. Cosette is graceful as she is in nearly everything, Valjean still somewhat clumsy despite the lessons. However, he is better than Javert expected and he finds himself strangely memorized by his movements that border on confident even with only one usable arm. In the green coat, all Valjean’s strength is on display especially when he raises his arm to twirl Cosette with a smile reserved for her. Javert wonders faintly what it would be like to dance with him, to see that smile directed at him alone and to be caught along the current of his movements, then shakes his head to dismiss it. Absurd. They already make a strange pair as ex-convict and ex-guard, Javert’s dark hair contrasting sharply which Valjean’s pure white, Valjean’s kind smile verses Javert’s harsh frown. There is no need to draw even more attention to themselves by being two men dancing with each other rather than with women.

Still, he thinks maybe Valjean would say yes if he asked him.

-

“Thank you,” Valjean says sincerely the next day. “You were right, of course. I would have never forgiven myself if I did not see Cosette married.”

“There is nothing to thank me for,” Javert says gruffly. “Cosette would have convinced you if I had not.”

“Even so,” Valjean takes his hand and squeezes it, “thank you, Javert.”

He raises Javert’s hand to brush his lips to Javert’s knuckles, then releases them to busy himself with preparing them tea. If he says anything of importance, Javert does not hear it. He is, once again, struck silent and useless with his fragmented thoughts moving too fast for him to catch. No part of Javert has been kissed in decades, not since childhood, and Javert can only stand there like a fool staring at his own fingers.

His hand buzzes with Valjean’s light touch for minutes afterwards, shaking with that emotion he is unable to bury completely. It has been eight months since Valjean found him on the bridge and Javert struggles to find the words to thank him for that very first touch. Instead, he rests a hand on Valjean’s shoulder and hopes it is enough.

-

Cosette is living happily with her husband and Valjean visits her nearly every day, occasionally taking Javert with him. The first time Javert accompanies him, Javert has not seen Pontmercy since the wedding and it quickly becomes clear that he did not recognize Javert as the same police spy that Valjean had offered to kill. The boy pales at the sight of Javert in his usual greatcoat with his usual police-issued cane, no longer looking the part of an upper-class gentleman.

“But, no, but you,” Pontmercy stutters.

“Out with it,” Javert growls impatiently.

“He killed you! At the barricades, I am certain—”

“Do not be absurd. Valjean could never take a life; not even mine.”

“Valjean? But he is Monsieur Fauchelevent—“

“Papa, you went to the barricades?” Cosette asks.

Javert curses himself silently and casts his gaze to the ceiling. A touch to his elbow, Valjean of course, and Javert collects himself enough to assist Valjean in retelling their history from the beginning once more. They carefully skirt the events of the evening after the barricades fell. Some things are best left between the two of them.

“I beg your forgiveness, Monsieur!” Pontmercy pleads when they have finished at last. “I thought you a murderer and a thief. When Cosette told me you were not her father by blood, I assumed the worst of you. Please, Monsieur, forgive me!”

“You are forgiven, my son,” Valjean says easily.

Javert snorts. Of course he would forgive so easily. Javert will not, because the boy is an idiot, but he keeps his opinions about Pontmercy’s stupidity to himself. Valjean takes Javert’s arm, presumably as a reminder to keep silent, but does not immediately release him. Javert allows it, grateful for every lingering touch Valjean bestows on him, and studiously ignores Pontmercy’s stupefied expression.

When Cosette does the same to Pontmercy at the end of their visit, looking quite natural at her husband’s side and glancing at him with a look of fondness that Javert recognizes intimately from forming the same expression countless times, Javert’s thoughts come to a sudden, skittering stop.


	2. Act 2: Aftershock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some minor violence here, just a head's up.

Once at home in his cramped apartment, Javert paces restlessly in front of his furnace for hours, hand clasped tightly behind his back and mind in a whirlwind.

Javert cannot, no, Javert is incapable of such emotions. How can he when he has never known such care and contentment as this before? Valjean is a deeply religious man; surely he would not appreciate the fondness that goes far beyond friendship Javert now holds for him. Such feelings between men are frowned upon, even more so by the church. It is not illegal, but such things must be unnatural.

Perhaps it is not a sin if Javert only has entirely innocent desires. He has only ever had innocent desires; yet another thing that alienates him from his peers. While other men spoke of the wonders of the flesh and the pleasure they had with women of the night, Javert had always found the idea to be distasteful at best. He had not been oblivious to acts preformed between men in prison and that too holds no appeal for him, so perhaps he is not entirely damned for his fixation on Valjean.

Even so, to desire- he can hardly think the proper word without scowling at himself, so he does not- _more_ with Valjean… Certainly he would not be welcome. For one, he is not handsome nor nice, another is their shared and turbulent past— all without mentioning the unavoidable fact that they are both men. Valjean may be a forgiving man, but what Javert had done, chasing him all these years and impressing unjust fear into him, is unforgivable.

The smell of something burning hits his nose and he steps away from the fire with a swear and swats at the embers with his hands. Damn fireplaces, damn embers, damn himself for allowing this feeling to go unnoticed for so long! He scowls at the offending party which only flickers merrily with another pop of sparks. If he had caught this feeling in himself sooner he could have snuffed it like an ember, but now it consumes his every thought like a wildfire. There is no stopping it now.

There is only one solution for his affliction: Valjean must never know what Javert desires from him— to see him happy and content and always an easy touch away, to see him awake and to see him asleep, to be free to press his lips to Valjean’s and know he is welcome. Javert cannot risk what friendship they have even for this. It would destroy him to be without Valjean’s smiles and comforting touches now that he has become accustomed to them.

Valjean cannot know.

-

Knowing the name of the feeling that rises in him and has long since turned his wooden heart to flesh again should not be as distracting as it is. Javert finds himself fixated on Valjean’s hand on his arms or his lips curved in contentment and must ask Valjean to repeat himself several times during his next visit. Valjean expresses concern over the dark circles under Javert’s eyes from lack of sleep, never quite convinced that Javert is fine.

“What is worrying you?” Valjean asks.

“Nothing, Valjean,” Javert lies, even as he resists the temptation to take Valjean’s hands in his own shaking ones to feel their warmth again.

Valjean frowns but does not push the subject.

-

Nothing can remain peaceful forever. Javert comes to visit as usual several weeks after Cosette’s wedding and finds Valjean inexplicably anxious. It has been a long time since he has shown this level of vigilance, shutting the door quickly behind Javert and glancing out the curtained windows every few minutes.

“What is it?” Javert asks, looking around himself. Nothing on his walk over was out of the ordinary and last he heard both Cosette and Pontmercy were healthy and well.

“What? Oh, nothing, Javert,” Valjean says, clearly lying. He used to be better at this, or perhaps Javert has simply grown familiar with him.

Javert narrows his eyes, then takes another look around the room for any hints as to the source of his anxiety. Valjean must have grown soft in these months with Javert as he glances furtively at his desk in the corner and giving himself away. Usually, the desk is clear or occasionally there is a letter to Cosette drying in the center. Today, there is a folded letter that appears to already be well-read laying there instead.

Without asking Valjean for permission, Javert stalks to the desk and snatches the letter off the desk. It is not Valjean’s handwriting of carefully looping letters nor Cosette’s elegantly written words. The writing is clumsy at best and there are careless smudges of ink in the margins uncharacteristic of both father and daughter.

“Javert, it does not concern you—"

Javert stops listening and skims the contents, occasionally squinting to read a particularly illegible word, scowl deepening with every line. Of course. Jondrette, or Thénardier as he identifies himself to Valjean. Javert should have expected this sooner. It would not be the first time Thénardier was looking to extort money from Valjean.

“This is blackmail,” Javert growls, pinning Valjean with a glare, “and you say it does not concern me? Have you forgotten I am an officer of the law?”

“You are not mentioned, and I do not believe he knows we are friends. I will give him what he asks for and he will not bother me again.”

“He is dangerous—“

“Which is exactly why I did not want you involved!”

Javert clenches his jaw. “What is to stop him from asking for an even larger sum? What is to stop him from killing you when you go to pay him?”

Valjean pales and drops his eyes.

“I will handle this,” Javert says, tucking the letter in his pocket.

“Javert—“

“Valjean, allow me this. I will keep you safe no matter the cost!”

He does not realize how much it sounds like a vow until the words are out of his mouth. There is nothing he can do to take them back, and strangely he does not want to.

-

Organizing a few officers to arrest Thénardier at the rendezvous without involving Valjean at all is more of a headache than Javert anticipated, to which Valjean does not help by insisting he should help. After several days of planning that goes nowhere and being unable to locate Thénardier in the city at all, Javert yields. Valjean retrieves the money from its hiding place that Javert refuses to ask about and Javert picks a handful of officers who are hopefully too young to remember Valjean ever being wanted by the police and too naïve to ask important questions. It would raise attention if Valjean is recognized while in friendly company with Javert.

It is decided Valjean will play bait- something Javert had fought vehemently against but ultimately lost- while Javert and a few officers will trap Thénardier and arrest him. Javert adds extra precautions, as surely he will not come alone as he instructed Valjean to do, and ensures his chosen officers know precisely what they are to do.

Even so, all his planning is not quite enough.

-

Thénardier is late.

Javert had hidden himself an hour before the appointed meeting time and Valjean had arrived a quarter hour ago, as arranged, and Thénardier has not yet appeared. It is very late, Valjean’s white hair shining like a beacon in the moonlight and veiling everything else in shadow. Valjean checks his watch calmly, as if he is not nervous at all. Javert resists the urge to pace, his natural restlessness becoming unbearable the longer he stands still.

Then, a single pair of unhurried footsteps.

“Jean Valjean,” Thénardier says as he enters, a crooked sneer on his face.

“Thénardier,” Valjean responds curtly. There is no sign of the anxiety Javert had observed earlier. “I have what you asked for.”

Thénardier’s face lights up with devilish glee.

“Before I give it to you, I wish to know something,” Valjean continues.

“You do not need to know anything! Have you forgotten what I know?” Thénardier says. “I could ruin you; I could ruin that girl you call a daughter!”

Valjean’s expression hardens. “Indulge an old man’s curiosity for a moment, Monsieur,” Valjean says, strangely calm. “You have attempted to rob me once before. What do you plan on doing with this money?”

Thénardier ponders the question for a moment. “A man has certain debts, you understand, that cannot be paid. Paris has grown tiresome and boring. I will be going… away.”

“Away?”

“As will you, Monsieur.”

“What—“

Javert is already creeping closer when Thénardier pulls out a pistol and aims it at Valjean.

“Thank you, Monsieur le Convict, for your money, but I have no more use for you.”

Valjean moves forward and grabs Thenardier’s wrist, forcing the gun away from him. There is a ear-piercing crack as the pistol fires into the ceiling. The package of money is dropped without care to the floor as Valjean overpowers Thénardier for control of the gun. He is no longer the kind old man Javert has come to know him as, but now appears like a great ferocious bear. It is the convict strength that Javert has always known him to possess, but he has forgotten that Valjean fights like a tiger.

“I will not allow you to threaten my daughter,” Valjean snarls.

Thénardier sneers, showing a row of yellowed crooked teeth. “She is nothing but a whore’s—“

Valjean sinks his fist into Thénardier’s midsection, cutting the man off and leaving him wheezing. The gun drops from his hand and clatters to the ground.

A dark shape removes itself from the shadows, moving quickly towards the two men with a silver glint held in its hand. Javert is not fast enough to stop the figure from swinging a knife at Valjean. He throws his own arm out to deflect the blow, hissing in pain as the knife strikes him at an angle and undoubtedly leaving a long gash along his forearm. The moonlight glints off the attacker’s mask; Montparnasse.

Javert readies his lead-tipped cane in his uninjured hand, ready to defend against another stab. Before he can do anything, Valjean is there and fighting Montparnasse for the knife. Valjean is the stronger by far, catching Montparnasse’s wrist in a tight grip. Javert turns his focus back to Thénardier, who has not yet recovered from Valjean’s punch and is shuffling towards the package full of Valjean’s money. It is unlike him to stay for a fair fight, not when he could escape with his prize unharmed.

Javert launches himself at Thénardier, swinging his arm and hitting the side of the man’s skull with the metal head of his cane with all the anger he holds towards this man who has interrupted Valjean’s life to cause him fear again. It connects with a loud crack and Thénardier hardly has time to make a sound before he’s crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Behind him, Valjean makes a sound of surprise. Javert turns to see him duck under Montparnasse’s knife, saving his throat but the blade catches on his cheek. Blood wells up immediately, nearly black in the low lighting. Montparnasse throws a punch with his other fist while Valjean is stunned that sends him to the ground, his head hitting the floor and eliciting a cry.

“Jean!” Javert calls in a panic, sprinting to his side. His heart is pounding loud in his ears and the pain in his arm is entirely forgotten.

Montparnasse, seeing Thénardier on the ground and Javert still standing, flees. Javert does not chase after him, far more concerned about Valjean than arresting Montparnasse. It is not the only time he has allowed a criminal to go free when one of his officers is severely injured, but it is the first time he cannot find it in himself to regret it.

Valjean groans, clutching the back of his head. Javert kneels beside him and retrieves his handkerchief to press against the wound on his face with his good arm. Valjean’s beard is course under his fingers and he unthinkingly flicks the hair away from Valjean’s eyes.

“Jean?” Javert asks, nearly breathless with worry.

“I need only a moment to recover,” Valjean says tightly. “I will be fine.”

Javert doubts that, but his chest loosens all the same. “You foolish idiot! I told you Thénardier was dangerous. Montparnasse is an old gang member of his. I should have expected him to bring one or two of the Patron-Minute.”

Valjean makes a sound of acknowledgment but does not reply. Javert checks the cut on Valjean’s face. The handkerchief is stained dark with a startling amount of blood, but the wound does not look deep. That is good. Javert hesitates to think about Montparnasse’s blade meeting its intended mark of Valjean’s throat. His fingers linger on Valjean’s cheek, shaking slightly, and Valjean’s eyes flutter shut.

“Valjean?” Javert asks again. “You must stay awake.”

“I will be fine,” Valjean repeats in a mumble, opening his eyes again. He slowly moves into a sitting position. Javert helps, placing his hands on Valjean’s broad shoulders and pulling him upright.

“Are you certain?” Javert asks. “We are no longer young men who recover easily. Allow me.”

His fingers are clumsy at best and he cannot still the tremor in them, but they at least confirm Valjean did not crack his skull or cause any bleeding when he fell. Valjean’s hair is thick and soft despite currently filled with bits of rock and wood from the floor. There will be bruising, surely, but this is something he should see a doctor for.

Javert is just about to suggest it when he realizes how close his face is to Valjean’s. His heart jumps in his chest before pounding as fast as if Javert were still fighting. When Valjean places a hand on his face in turn, he hardly remembers how to breathe. He sees Valjean’s features as a blur they are so close, so near to each other that Javert can feel Valjean’s breath on his own lips.

Valjean cannot know, he reminds himself in far off part of his mind. Javert’s eyes are drawn to his friend's lips and he cannot fight the pull that drags him closer. Then he realizes it a physical pull, one urged on by Valjean’s hand on his jaw. His pulse skips and stumbles. Could Valjean feel the same? Does he dare kiss him here and now with Valjean’s hair between his fingers and Valjean’s thumb stroking his whiskers?

“Inspector?” a voice calls from the door. One of Javert’s young officers no doubt.

They do not have the chance to try. Javert draws away regretfully, unable to stop staring at Valjean. The same longing is there in his eyes, laid bare at last, and he is certain he is not alone in this.

“Ah, Inspector? It’s Dufour. Did you catch Thénardier?” the officer asks again.

“Yes,” Javert tries to answer, mouth oddly dry. He clears his throat, attempting to recover his professional mask. Valjean smiles at him, fond and soft. “Yes. I knocked him unconscious. He will need to be handcuffed before he wakes.”

“What about the other man? We were unable to catch him. He was fast, and he had a knife, and, well.” Dufour makes some motion followed by a small sound of pain.

“Montparnasse? At least the attempt was made. Let him go for now; he will have gone to ground in some hiding place or another.”

“And the money?”

Javert tears his eyes away from Valjean at last and stands to look around, but the package Thénardier had dropped is nowhere to be seen. He had been so focused on Valjean that he did not notice Montparnasse take the money when he fled, but that is the only explanation.

“Let the boy have the money,” Valjean says from the ground. “Perhaps he will find a new life with it elsewhere, one that does not require breaking the law.”

“Val—" Javert clenches his jaw, mindful of Dufour’s presence. “Montparnasse could have killed you!”

“He is only a boy!”

“He is a criminal!”

“He could change.”

“Not all criminals wish to change. You cannot save everyone!”

Valjean turns away, wincing as he does so. Javert huffs at his stubbornness then looks back to Dufour, who is flicking his eyes between them with confusion. He is holding his shoulder, Montparnasse’s work no doubt, but the wound does not seem to be serious.

“He requires a hospital,” Javert says, indicating Valjean.

“As do you, Inspector,” Valjean adds, pointing as Javert’s arm.

Javert scowls. He had nearly forgotten after being distracted by Valjean’s near-kiss. The wound throbs with pain and has bleed enough that the fabric of his shirt and coat stick to his arm uncomfortably. Unfortunately, it probably requires more care than Javert knows how to give it.

“Should I ask one of the others to call for a farce? I was the only one injured,” Dufour asks.

“Yes, go,” Javert says, then glances at Thénardier. Valjean has made no indication that he is ready to stand. “Come back after you have done so; someone will have to carry Thénardier. I must assist… Monsieur Fauchelevent.” The false name is strange on his tongue.

Dufour hesitates, as if he wishes to speak, then leaves without saying anything.

“I do not need assistance, Javert,” Valjean says. Javert leaves him and approaches Thénardier’s form, which still has not stirred. Hopefully Javert did not kill him, no matter if the man deserves it. Valjean would be quite upset with him if he did.

“If you do not need assistance then why are you not standing?” Javert responds. He takes Thénardier’s wrists and pulls them together roughly, then promptly handcuffs him. The man seems to still be breathing. Javert does not know if he is disappointed with this or not.

“I only need a moment,” Valjean insists. When Javert turns, he sees Valjean has his head in his hands again.

“You have had several minutes already. What you need is a doctor,” Javert insists, making his way back over and kneeling next to him. “I will not see you needlessly martyr yourself.”

“Let me see your arm,” Valjean says, reaching out to him.

Javert kneels, thrusting his arm out for Valjean’s inspection. At least Valjean is not in enough pain to distract him from fussing over Javert. The gash is nearly the length his forearm and stings when Valjean pulls the soaked fabric off of it.

“I have had worse,” Javert says before Valjean can comment on his recklessness or any such thing. He would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Valjean out of harm’s way.

“I wish you have not,” Valjean responds. He retrieves his own handkerchief and ties it around the deepest part of the wound.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I have had too much wine.” He tries to smile, as if making a joke.

Javert brushes off his attempt at lightening the situation and frowns. If Valjean is feeling dizzy, that could indicate much more severe problems than Javert first expected. Valjean takes Javert’s hand in his own before Javert can voice any more concern.

“Javert,” Valjean says with a touch of worry. “Just then, would you have allowed me? Had we not been interrupted?” Even in the dark, it is easy to tell Valjean has flushed scarlet.

“Yes,” Javert responds immediately, clutching Valjean’s hand with both of his own. “Yes, Valjean, I have wanted—“

“Inspector!” Dufour’s voice comes from the doorway again.

Javert growls in annoyance, turning to glare at the young officer.

“We can speak later,” Valjean says softly, touching his other hand to Javert’s jaw lightly to draw his attention back. He is smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“After you see a doctor,” Javert agrees.

“Inspector, we have secured a farce,” Dufour says, apparently not noticing their clasped hands or Valjean caressing Javert’s face.

“Take Thénardier,” Javert directs, pulling out of Valjean’s hands to do so. Perhaps it is petty revenge to force Dufour to carry the unconscious Thénardier after interrupting them twice, but it is not entirely without rational reason. He is not a young man and Valjean needs assistance that Javert is only too willing to provide.

Dufour nods eagerly and does as he was told while Javert helps Valjean to his feet. A second officer appears in the doorway to assist with Thénardier, who makes a sound like a groan when forced upright.

“Ah,” Valjean says once on his feet again, leaning heavily on Javert with his eyes shut tightly in pain, “perhaps you were correct after all.”

“I am always correct,” Javert mutters, throwing Valjean’s arm over his shoulder and blocking out the pain of his own wound. “You are only too stubborn to see it.”

If his arm tightens around Valjean’s waist and if he sits closer to Valjean in the farce than is strictly proper, it is not commented on.

-

The doctor at the hospital lectures them both on their reckless behavior, but does not attempt to remove Javert from the room while Valjean holds fast to his elbow. Javert is too star struck by the memory of Valjean’s breath on his lips and the fond glances Valjean keeps giving him to protest such an obvious display of affection.

“You must be good friends with the inspector here to risk yourself like that,” the doctor says when he finishes checking Valjean’s head.

Valjean chuckles weakly, turning to look Javert with a fondness previously reserved for Cosette alone. “One could say that.”

The contents of Javert’s chest seem to have taken up aerobics tonight, as his heart does yet another improbable flip.

-

It takes a great deal of time to draw up the paperwork necessary to condemn Thénardier to prison for life and Javert had never lied more in his life trying to keep Valjean as far away from it as possible. Javert does not trust Thénardier to stay in his temporary cell, as it was how he lost him the first time, and avoids the promised talk with Valjean in favor of keeping an eye on Thénardier personally. The man complains frequently of headaches and spends the rest of his time attempting to make conversation and spinning tall tales of feats he has supposedly accomplished. There will be no one to break him out this time.

Then there is the issue of Valjean, who writes to also complain of headaches and of how his daughter should not be fussing over him. Valjean who is his friend, Valjean who wanted to kiss him, Valjean who may want more from him than he is able to give. Javert spends a great deal of time thinking about what Valjean may expect from him. Kisses, certainly, but what else? He may want other things, things that turn Javert’s face scarlet with embarrassment and sends his chest clenching with unease when he thinks about them in the privacy of his apartment. If Valjean asked it of him, Javert is certain he would be unable to comply.

Does that make him less desirable? It is probably some fault within him, Javert, that prevents him from feeling such desires of the flesh. He had lived for so long without feeling anything but rage and justice that he may have skipped over learning that emotion entirely. He admires Valjean’s form, it is nearly impossible not to, but that is an enjoyment of its own and has never ignited any such flame inside him. Perhaps he is akin to a lighter without any flint to produce a spark. Such a device would be useless, but Valjean has always managed to see the beauty in broken things. It is the reason they are friends to begin with.

When, finally, Thénardier is safely away in irons and Javert’s superiors order him home to recover from his wounds, Javert visits Valjean for the first time since Thénardier’s arrest. Never before has the walk to Valjean’s home seemed so long. Conflicting emotions war within him; anticipation and dread, joy and fear, all overshadowed by sheer willpower and annoyance that he is feeling such things at all. It is only a talk, and, if Javert is fortunate, maybe Valjean will still wish to kiss him after Javert explains himself. He tells himself sternly there is nothing to worry about, yet anxiety continues to eat away at him.

 


	3. Act Three: Stillness

It is not Valjean, but his landlady who opens the door to greet Javert. She tells him Valjean has been ordered to rest, much like Javert himself, and still occasionally experiences periods of dizziness. Javert frowns. A week should have been long enough to recover, but maybe Javert had misjudged the severity of the injury.

He finds Valjean on his sofa with a book in hand. On the table next to him, Javert spies the few notes Javert has sent him over the week, carefully folded and refolded countless times with obvious care. The cut on his cheek has faded to a thin pink line, hardly noticeable unless one was looking for it.

“Inspector!” Valjean greets him with a smile, setting his book aside and looking ready to stand.

“Stay sitting, you reckless fool,” Javert chastises him, crossing the room with long strides. “Your landlady already warmed me you are still recovering.”

“I am fine, save for the headaches,” Valjean insists. “How is your arm?”

“I have been told to stay home to rest,” Javert reports dutifully. “It does not pain me much. The doctor says it will scar.”

“I apologize.”

“Whatever for? Without you, Thénardier would have continued to terrorize Paris. Now he is off to prison and cannot harm you again.”

“I mean for the scar.” He touches the back of Javert’s wrist lightly, close to where the wound begins.

Javert scoffs. “You should know by now that scars mean nothing to me.”

Valjean looks away and scratches an itch on his chest. It takes a moment before Javert remembers what lays branded just under his fingers.

“Valjean, I did not mean to imply—“

“I know you did not,” Valjean interrupts, forcing a smile. His hands stills on his chest and is just as suddenly jerked aside like he had been unaware of its movements. “Come, sit. Let us speak no more of scars and talk of something else.” He pats the sofa next to him in invitation.

Javert hesitates, then sits stiffly beside him. Now is the time to tell him. He braces for Valjean’s pity.

“After I hit my head, I became, ah, a little confused,” Valjean says. He looks at his hands on his lap. “You were very kind to me when you did not need to be.”

Javert watches Valjean’s hands tighten together. “You do not remember what happened after?” he asks after a moment.

“Not clearly, no.” Valjean unclasps his hands and smooths them on his trousers instead. “I am afraid I may have done or said something foolish.”

Javert huffs a silent laugh of disbelief. “You were going to kiss me,” he says bluntly, voicing the act for the first time. He cannot look at Valjean as he says it.

“Oh,” Valjean says. His cheeks redden and he looks away. “Then I did not misremember.”

“I was going to let you.”

“Oh,” Valjean says again in a completely different tone, breathless in pleasant surprise. “Why did I not?”

“One of my officers interrupted us. Twice.” Javert makes a sound of irritation. “I nearly strangled him.”

Valjean chuckles, hiding a smile behind a raised hand. The corners of his eyes fold into neat lines. “I think I remember now. Dubois?”

“Dufour,” Javert corrects. “You said we would talk.”

“Indeed, we are,” Valjean says. His smile has yet to fade. “I am more than amiable to do other things with you instead.”

Javert cannot help the flush that overtakes his face. Surely Valjean only means to take his hand or kiss him, as it is the middle of the day and his landlady is just downstairs, but Javert’s mind jumps immediately to more intimate acts.

He stands suddenly, hands gripped together behind his back. It is best to explain now than have Valjean be disappointed with him later.

“Javert?” Valjean asks. “Have you changed your mind?” He is terrible at hiding the hurt from his face.

“No. Maybe.” He frowns at himself. “I must tell you something first, and then I shall proceed according to your reaction.”

“Is it about Thénardier?”

“What? No.” He shakes his head sharply. “Thénardier is gone and no longer a threat. No, I simply need to know what you will ask of me if we decide to, well.” He unclasps his hands and starts tugging on his whiskers. There is no easy way to say this. “I would gladly agree to whatever you suggest if I were not,” he pauses again, “defective.”

Valjean blinks at him, eyebrows drawn low in confusion.

Javert does not fight the urge to pace, taking long strides parallel to the sofa before whirling around again. “You madden me, did you know? I have never desired the company of another, have never once wondered what a friendly hand felt like until you. Now I crave these things from you and more, yet I fear you will ask something from me that I cannot give you. You will not demand it, but you will want it and I will leave you unsatisfied.” He gestures as he speaks, hands flying in patterns that he himself does not understand.

“Javert, I do not understand. What could I possibly want from you that causes you such distress?” Valjean says it as if he cannot fathom a single thing he would want that Javert would not easily give.

Javert cannot help the sharp bark of laughter that escapes his lips. It is near manic, like he had been on the bridge all those months ago, yet completely different. He wants to drive the heels of his palms into his eyes until strange patterns cross his vision. He wants to scream at Valjean how Javert is not worth his attentions. He wants to kiss Valjean and forget about what he cannot give. He does not know what he wants.

“You wish my company; I will gladly give myself to you, thought I cannot understand why you would choose me,” Javert says, not pausing in his pacing. “I wish to see you well and content; this I have already done and will continue to do so. None of these things are sinful.”

Valjean looks as if he is about to interject and Javert cuts him off with a raised palm.

“However,” Javert continues, “there are the desires of the body, of the flesh, that the Bible has claimed are acts of sin if such desires are satisfied by men such as ourselves. I do not care what the Church may say of such acts- I have damned myself anyway, it would not matter- and if I were another man I would not hesitate to commit myself to you in that way as well.” His face reddens as he continues and he watches the floor in front of him stubbornly. “You are but a man, and like any man you must have... earthly desires. Valjean, I will not— I _cannot_ give you satisfaction. Clearly, there is a fault in me that I do not know how to repair, but I would rather abstain completely than leave you unfulfilled.”

He has stopped pacing now, instead forcing himself into parade rest while restless energy continues crawls through his limbs. It is not unlike the time he asked for dismissal at the hand of Monsieur Madeleine. He swallows, awaiting Valjean’s answer.

Valjean does not reply immediately. He tilts his head, as if attempting to find the fault Javert speaks of as a physical mark. Javert does not dare look at him.

“You are saying you are willing to satisfy the desires of the spirit, but unable to do so to those of flesh?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

Javert cannot stop the look of disgust that passes over his face at the thought. “I find the idea of it revolting. It holds no appeal for me whatsoever and never has, no matter the sex of my partner. So, you see?” He makes a sharp gesture indicating himself. “A fault, a defect in my person. I thought it best to warn you of it before I disappoint you.”

Valjean does not speak and Javert continues to stare at the floor, completely unmoving.

“I see no faults,” Valjean says at last.

Javert’s head snaps up, ready to repeat himself in much cruder terms. Valjean’s face is just as flushed as his own, but the soft expression on his face stops the words from leaving Javert’s mouth.

“Javert, you must remember I am an old man. I have been celibate for all my life and am happy to remain that way.” He reaches out to take one of Javert’s unresisting hands in his own. “I have never felt strongly about my, ah, desires. I do not mind that you do not, well.” He clears his throat. “It makes no difference to me.” By the time Valjean finishes stumbling over his words, his face is flushed bright and his grip tighter than usual.

“I see,” Javert responds automatically, his thoughts caught up in Valjean’s words. He had not planned for this outcome, for Valjean to understand and want him anyway. Of course he would. He is the man of mercy, a man who does not mind occasional Javert’s foul moods or his stubbornness or the fact Javert is not handsome. It is pure stupidity that has Javert overlooking the overwhelming evidence that Valjean cares for him and does not plan to stop.

They watch each other for several moments with flushed faces, neither quite knowing what to say next. Their hands stay clasped. It is several moments, or perhaps minutes, before Javert pulls his hand away. Valjean’s touch, like always, sends him trembling.

“Forgive me for my foolishness,” Javert mutters, rubbing a hand across his still-flushed face.

“You are forgiven,” Valjean says immediately, and even with a hand covering his eyes Javert knows he is smiling. “Will you sit with me? You look exhausted.”

“There is a great deal of paperwork involved in an arrest of that caliber,” Javert says, sinking into the sofa next to Valjean once more, this time closer to him than before. “I did not dare leave him unsupervised in the cells in case he planned another escape. I am not allowed back in the station for two days.”

“I think it will do you good. You are only human, Javert.” Valjean tucks a stray strand of Javert’s hair behind his ear, turning the motion into something intimate and fond. Javert allows himself a moment of weakness and presses into his hand. His breath shakes before he can catch himself.

“I believe you may be the only one to think that,” Javert replies in a mutter. “Dufour will not leave me alone, constantly at my heels like an overenthusiastic puppy. It is incredibly irritating.”

Valjean smiles and Javert’s breath catches in his chest as it always does.

“Does he at least show promise? You could use the opportunity to pass on your knowledge before you retire.”

Javert snorts. “I will not retire. What else would I possibly do with my time?”

“You could live here with me.”

Javert blinks stupidly at him. Valjean flushes and looks away, taking his hand with him.

“Forgive me. I am still recovering and sometimes I find myself saying things—“

“You will surely tire of me,” Javert interrupts, “if I were to stay with you.”

Now it is Valjean who is struck silent for a moment. “I could never tire of you.”

“I am stubborn.”

“As am I.”

“I can be cruel.”

“I will forgive you.”

“I am old.”

“I am older.”

“I am,” Javert flounders. “I am not handsome.”

“It is the soul that matters most,” Valjean says, pressing a hand to Javert’s chest. The tremor starts in his bones again and Javert closes his eyes.

“I am flawed,” Javert says in a quiet breath like an admission.

“As am I,” Valjean answers just as softly, moving his hand from Javert’s chest to his face once more. He cups Javert’s cheek carefully, as if knowing the cracks in Javert’s armor only need a single push to leaving him bare and unprotected.

They are close now, close enough that their knees brush together. Javert leans forward, eyes still closed, and Valjean meets him halfway. Kissing him is strange but wonderful, like joy personified although they are both clumsy and unpracticed in their movements. Valjean’s lips are welcoming and his beard tickles Javert’s face but they are nothing compared to the great wind of emotions that fly from his chest like birds on the wing. It is not a gust but a hurricane, battering against his very soul until he too is part of the cyclone that spawns when Valjean’s lips touch him. The tremor that starts in his hands cannot be subdued.

“I am scarred,” Valjean says against his lips.

“I know,” Javert replies. It is hardly any effort to kiss him again.

“I am weak.”

“You are the strongest man I know, in every sense.”

“I am not handsome either.”

“Absurd,” Javert says, daring to put his own trembling hand on Valjean’s face. “I find you very handsome.” He does not allow Valjean to draw away after such a statement and kisses him again. It is quite wonderful to kiss him. It is joy, it is understanding, it is a great many things that Javert cannot put into words. He cannot remain steady, the overflowing emotion sending a great quake though his hands and his words.

“Oh,” Valjean says, pulling away to take Javert’s hand in his own. “You are shaking!”

Javert has become so used to the effect Valjean has on him that he does not immediately know what Valjean is speaking of.

“That is a regular occurrence,” Javert says. Valjean’s seems to believe that the best way to stop it from trembling is to wrap his own hands around it and Javert does not argue. They are pressed shoulder to shoulder now, having gravitated towards each other on the sofa. Valjean is solid and warm against him and all Javert’s senses sing with contentment even as he trembles, overwhelmed.

“Do you know the cause? Have you eaten recently? You should not be skipping meals to see me,” Valjean says, squeezing his hand in comfort.

“It is not that,” Javert says. “It happens when you touch me.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“I want quite the opposite.” Perhaps he will stop trembling once he has quenched this thirst his skin has for Valjean’s own.

Valjean squeezes his hand as answer, smiling once more, then launches into a report of his own week of recovery with Cosette worrying over him with Pontmercy’s assistance as if nothing between them has changed. He does not release him until Javert pulls away when the heat of their hands becomes unbearable, and then rests his hand on Javert’s knee instead. Javert does not notice when the trembling dies down to nothing, only that he is no longer shaking when Valjean kisses him again.

—

Valjean invites him to move his things into an empty room in his home and Javert, bizarrely, does not object to the idea immediately. They had spoken of it, yes, but Javert had not seriously considered it. It is one thing to talk of such things but another to follow through. Still, that does not stop Valjean from convincing him with a kiss, not yet committing to a specific day. There are quite a few more kisses and Javert takes every one as a gift.

It is several weeks before Javert is convinced he is not dreaming.

—

“I still will not retire,” Javert says, pressed against Valjean’s side on the sofa once more. “I cannot stand doing nothing.”

“I worry about you,” Valjean says, tracing the still-healing scar on his arm over his sleeve. “You are too reckless.”

“I will be more careful in the future; will that satisfy you?”

“I will always worry.”

Javert looks to the heavens, putting on a show of irritation. Valjean smiles and squeezes his hand that does not shake. He has never felt so blessed.

-

“Inspector?”

“What is it now?” Javert snaps. It is Dufour; idiotic, irritating, incessant Dufour.

“I wished to speak with you in private?” The boy looks to be on the pinnacle of anxiety, hair in disarray and practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, glancing around nervously.

Javert sighs, setting aside his pen aside and retrieving his coat from the back of his chair. “Come. My paperwork can wait.”

He leads the boy outside, then starts off in a random direction. They are still on duty. It would not do to stand around idly. Dufour scrambles to keep up with Javert’s long stride.

“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” Javert asks gruffly, eyes sweeping their surroundings. Patrol is far preferable than paperwork, but he will not slack in his duty simply because Dufour wishes to say something to him.

“Well, I only wished to say that, um,” Dufour stutters. “You have my confidence.”

“In what?” Javert growls, his opinion of the boy lowering with every stupid syllable out of his mouth.

“I saw you and Fauchelevent, when we arrested Thénardier. He is not only a friend, is he?”

Javert stops abruptly, completely uncaring how Dufour nearly clips his shoulder with his momentum. “Explain,” he snaps, glaring down at the nervous officer with narrowed eyes.

“I, um, it was obvious, I believe, with how he looked at you and, um, how you let him touch you?” Dufour is practically trembling, his eyes never meeting Javert’s for more than a fraction of a second. “You never let anyone touch you, unless there is no other choice, so I only thought there must be, ah, more to it than you said. And then you were distracted until Thénardier was out of our cells, which at first I assumed to be paranoia as that is how he escaped before, but then I remembered it was Fauchelevent who had come to you for help so it was obvious you were worried about Fauchelevent more than Thénardier escaping again—“

“Enough,” Javert says. Dufour falls silent immediately. He is more observant that Javert originally gave him credit for. Obviously, he has not been careful enough. “What is it that you want?”

Dufour blinks up at him stupidly. “Excuse me?”

“Is this blackmail? What are your demands?” Javert snaps. His grip on his cane tightens.

“N-nothing, Inspector!” Dufour says, taking a step back. “I only wished to tell you I will stay silent on this.”

Javert keeps him pinned with a glare for another long moment. He is too much of an idiot to be much of a liar, but perhaps he is not an idiot at all. Either way, he appears to be sincere and Javert has no other option but to trust him. He turns with a swirl of his greatcoat and continues walking.

Dufour once again scrambles to catch up, occasionally breaking into a jog to match Javert’s pace.

“You will speak of this to no one,” Javert says.

“Of course, Inspector!”

There is blessed silence between them for several streets. Perhaps Valjean’s idea of forming Dufour into a competent officer is not so terrible. It is, at the very least, something to keep him occupied.

“Fauchelevent is not his real name, is it?” Dufour asks.

“You will not go looking into him,” Javert orders sternly. “He has his reasons for not trusting the police.” Only God knows what the boy will find in the file of a man who does not truly exist. Presumably something worthy of arrest, knowing Valjean.

“He trusts you.”

“Of course. We have known each other for decades.” Technically speaking. In truth, they have only seen each other plainly for a little over a year.

“You are happy?”

Javert slows his pace and narrows his eyes at him. Dufour’s face is an embarrassed red that clashes terribly with his copper hair.

“...Yes,” Javert answers after a pause, and it surprises even him that it is the truth. Had he ever been truly happy before? His work gave him purpose and contentment, but he never had a friend to confide in until recently.

Javert returns his eyes to the crowds. “What would you say if I offered to mentor you?”

Dufour nearly trips in his enthusiasm to accept and Javert suppresses a smile. If this goes terribly, he will blame Valjean for suggesting it in the first place.

—

“Dufour is not an idiot,” Javert announces to Valjean.

“Oh?”

“You may wish to avoid him if you ever happen to spot him. He is terribly curious about my _paramour_.” His lips turn into a scowl at the last word. “Thankfully, I have his silence and he is not the type to spread gossip.”

Valjean, of course, only smiles at him with no concern that their relationship is known. “Are you going to teach him?”

“Unfortunately.” Javert sighs. “I have not yet strangled him and he has not yet run from me screaming into the streets, so I am counting it as a success. We shall see.”

—

Valjean does not tell Cosette as much as he completely forgets to mind himself in her presence.

“Hello Javert,” Valjean says with a warm smile on his face, rising from his chair to greet him as he usually does. Cosette sits across from him, a plate of little biscuits before her and a smile on her face. Pontmercy is nowhere to be seen, to Javert’s great relief. He removes his coat and hat, hanging them as usual before turning back to them.

“I was unaware that—“ Javert begins.

He is cut off by Valjean’s customary chaste kiss of welcome, stiffening in shock that Valjean would dare do such a thing with his daughter present. Words fail him as Valjean pulls away, a look of confusion on his face when Javert fails to respond as usual.

“Are you alright? Did something happen?” he asks, taking one of Javert’s hands in his own.

Javert meets Cosette’s eyes in a panic. “I was unaware your daughter would be visiting today,” he says in a flat voice.

Valjean stiffens as well now, face paling at an alarming rate. His grip on Javert’s hand turns crushing before he drops it like it burns him.

Cosette seems to be in a similar state of shock, but does not look immediately angered or disgusted. All three of them watch each other for several silent moments before Cosette smiles. It is difficult to tell if it is forced or not.

“Marius has work to attend to today, so I thought I would visit my dear Papa and ask him to come live with us again,” Cosette says. “I see now why he continues to refuse me.”

“Madame,” Javert starts, prepared to react in Valjean’s defense. Losing Cosette to this of all things would destroy him.

“Inspector,” Cosette interrupts, a more genuine smile gracing her face that speaks of mischief. It does not reassure him. “Papa had mentioned that you assisted him with someone attempting to blackmail him and has been a great deal happier since. He has not told me why.”

“It was not my intention to deceive you,” Valjean says quietly.

At this, Cosette laughs. It is a pleasing sound, much different than Javert’s own harsh barks. “Papa, you have not deceived me! You speak of him constantly and I have seen the way he looks at you.” She walks to them and takes both of their hands. It is not as uncomfortable as her touches have been in the past. “I am happy you have someone as dutiful as Inspector Javert to care for you, Papa. Now I will not have any reason to worry.”

She brings their hands together until they are clasped with each other instead of with Cosette. It is a clear approval, more than Javert could have hoped for. Valjean grips his hand tightly on the verge of some emotion, eyes shining. Javert hands him his handkerchief without a word and Cosette’s smile only widens.

-

Cosette manages to corner him later, when Valjean is assisting his landlady with bringing up supper, and Javert sees at once how formidable she can be underneath such an angelic face. Her stern expression is an exact mirror of Valjean’s own.

“I am not worthy of him,” Javert says before she can say a word. “I have mistreated him and yet his has forgiven me. I owe him my life twice over. He has changed me.”

“He will be happy?” Cosette asks.

“I will lay down everything I am for him,” Javert answers, unflinching in the assessing eyes of Valjean’s daughter. “I cannot give him what he deserves, for he deserves more than any man, but I promise you I will see him happy.”

Cosette nods once, smiling at him in approval.

-

It is nearly by accident that Javert moves his things into Valjean’s home. They came a little at a time, kept aside in the spare room he knows Valjean is keeping for him, until one day he simply announced himself moved and drops a final bag in front of Valjean.

“You are certain?” Valjean asks.

“How can I not be certain?” Javert answers. “Where else would I wish to be if not with you?”

Valjean kisses him then, smiling, and Javert’s hands tremble on Valjean’s hips. It is perfect, even as Javert feels like a thief stealing such moments of happiness from him in kisses and embraces. In such moments, his very soul quakes to realign itself.

They share a bedroom, only to sleep, and Valjean never asks more than Javert can give. Javert takes Valjean’s scarred wrists in his own hands and presses his lips to where chains once bound him night after night and it is not Javert who trembles at such a touch. Such a crime can never be truly forgiven, not in full, and Javert takes this small penance as a duty.

They learn each other slowly, as they always have. Valjean cannot sleep past dawn and Javert often works late, waking Valjean when he finally comes to bed. Javert is invited to lunches and dinner with Cosette and her husband, and Dufour manages to cross paths with Valjean so many times that it cannot possibly be coincidental. Valjean worries too much and Javert still refuses to retire, but now he is not always the first officer at the scene and often sends Dufour in his place. Valjean does not always approve. All throughout, there are touches of affection and soft kisses filled with joy and warm smiles that speak of love in a language of their own. Javert is blessed and he is happy, so unfathomably happy to share such a thing with Valjean.

-

In time, Javert ceases to tremble at Valjean’s touch. Javert cannot help but think of Valjean as an earthquake, for what else would cause such tremors if not an earthquake of the soul? Valjean has slowly made a place for himself in Javert’s fractured heart with every touch and every kind word and every soft smile directed his way, remaking him until Javert can scarcely recognize himself as the man he was a year ago on the bridge. He is a better man, certainly; how can he not be with Valjean at his side? Valjean has taught him mercy and love and countless other things that were once missing from his life. He has a friend to confide in, a lover that accepts every aspect of him, a family that cares for him. The earthquake has passed and he has been made anew and cannot find it in himself to regret the change.

-

“Thank you,” Javert says one evening without any preamble.

Valjean lowers his book. “Whatever for?”

“A year ago, you asked me to step down from the parapet,” Javert says. “I have never thanked you for doing so.”

“I did not expect your thanks,” Valjean says. “It is not why I did it.”

“I have failed to convey how grateful I am for your actions that night and the days following it,” Javert continues. “Without you, I would have been lost. I would not have learned mercy and kindness and I would have died an unchanged man. Without you, Jean, I would not have experienced what we now share nor companionship—”

“Javert,” Valjean says with a small smile, “I know.”

Javert can hardly breathe through the multitude of emotions that choke his chest. Speaking is entirely out of the question. Valjean must know he holds Javert’s soul in his hands, he must be made aware, but there are no words for what he wishes to express. Instead, he takes Valjean’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply for long moments in an attempt to communicate how important Valjean has become to him, how grateful he is for Valjean’s patience and care.

“Oh,” Valjean breathes against his lips, a warm hand coming to rest on Javert’s own face in a caress. “I believe I understand better now. Of course I feel the same.”

When Valjean kisses him again, he is smiling, and Javert is helpless to do anything but smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
